


you're the closest to heaven (that i'll ever be)

by geralehane



Series: gera's step-sister au [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, SSAU, step sister au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geralehane/pseuds/geralehane
Summary: "i'd give up forever to touch you" from clarke's pov.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> check out [my tumblr](http://geralehane.tumblr.com) for a link to my other works! 
> 
> enjoy your read!

Everyone always leaves, but you can't blame them. It's never about you, anyway. You're the sideline. There's always someone who's hurt far worse than you, and you accept that. 

Your love story with Finn was supposed to be grandiose, but it wasn't your love story at all. It was Finn and Raven and you looking through the window of his betrayal. Everyone is the main protagonist of their life. Everyone but you, because even in your life, you're the sidekick, and it's too numb to hurt anymore. 

Friends are a concept you're struggling with. Sometimes, Raven and O look like they are waiting for something you aren't sure you can give them. Sometimes, they look at you like they are waiting for you to snap. Sometimes, they don't look at you at all, and it's finally easy to breathe. 

Dad dies at dawn, and mom wasn't allowed to operate him. Emotional hazard, you'll think later. Dad leaves you but your mom is hurting and you're left staring at the drawings on the fridge. 

There is always someone whose pain runs deeper. 

Mom is there, but she also left when dad did. 

People leave. It's easier to leave them first. So you do. Slip away at night, or stare at them with your brow quirked until they gather their clothes and run, a tale of Griffin the legendary fuck ready at the tip of their tongues. Tongues, mouths, greedy, greedy hands. You don't know if you didn't care in the beginning or stopped caring along the way, and you don't think it matters at all. 

You're so used to people leaving it's a shock when they intend to stay. Because marriage is supposed to be about staying, right? Till death do us part. You've borne witness to that, in a scentless hospital hallway. 

Mister Woods is a tall, respectable widow just as dead inside as your mom is. Or, maybe not. Maybe he's just a man happy to have found someone after the love of his life died. Maybe she wasn't the love of his life. Maybe your mom will be. Maybe, your mom isn't dead inside at all and she's turning a new leaf and embarking on an adventure. 

But you can't know for sure, and so you stare at him at dinner and make up stories in your head. He has a daughter, too, he says. You'll like her, he says. Lexa Woods, he says, and the ringing pride in his voice, together with the way he says her name, makes you cringe.

She's got perfect grades. A perfect house. A perfect father. She probably does cocaine in one of the giant master bedrooms and lets guys do things to her body that Mr. Woods has never tried in his entire life. If any of it is true, you'll become great friends.  

Mr. Woods proposes and your mother says a watery _yes, of course_ , and even though the wedding is in six months, he insists you all live together like one big happy family.

You move in on a Saturday. 

And, god, Lexa is beautiful. 

//

She's quiet. That's the first thing you notice about her. What a lie, though. There isn't just one thing you notice about her. It's a multitude of things, hitting you all at once, and you have trouble navigating through them. It's lips and hair and eyes and collarbones and a calm, sure posture, and you just – you just want to shake her, because she can't be real. She's so far from the image of her you have already constructed in your mind that at first you're slightly offended. 

She's quiet. And cold. So, so cold that you shiver. 

Does she yearn for warmth just like you do? 

_Do you?_

//

You're a tidal wave, but she's a fucking rock, and you crash and crash and crash. 

You just want under her skin. But she won't let you. You cry out and scream and stomp and your only answer is the quiet click of the door. 

She's so quiet and you're so envious she's able to be so quiet with herself all the time. You think she must like her own thoughts. You notice her drowning in them. But – no, you're the one who drowns in thoughts, desperate to come up for air that parties and empty friendships and loud fucking provides. She's swimming in hers. Calm and slow and gracious. 

She puts your shoes in order and lays out the ingredients for her breakfast, carefully measured and prepared. You time your conquests so she's around when they leave, and she doesn't care. At first she asks you to please be quieter. The louder you get, the less she asks. 

If only she weren't so goddamn beautiful. 

It irks you – the way she only cares about the appropriate volume of your sexcapades. You don't really know why you want her to care about something other than that. About someone else's hands on you and someone else's fingers in you and- 

_Someone else's but hers?_

You spend the whole weekend out of the house the first time you have the thought. The fucking audacity to even think about corrupting Mr. Woods' show pony - except she isn't, is she? She's just like you. Left outside to look through the window while her father is locked inside the house made of grief and mourning. Lexa's used to it by now – her mother passed away a very long time ago. You're not sure you want to get used to something like that. Being locked out. 

You're scared you're starting to. These thoughts – they are the type of thoughts you drown in, and you don't want to drown. You don't really know what you want anymore. 

Liar. 

You want her. 

(You want your mom back and you want your dad back, too, and you just want a normal life where thoughts are not the equivalent of a deep stormy sea, but we can't always get what we want. Unless it's Lexa.) 

And you want Lexa.

Her glances are fleeting, but they are there, and that's good enough of a start. They'll grow longer in a week. You'll make sure of that. 

_If only she weren't so goddamn beautiful._

//

Parents leave on a yet another trip, and you are left alone with Lexa. It hasn't even been a month, and your mother is already leaving you alone with a girl you barely know, in a house that's not yours. 

Lexa puts your shoes away and gives you impassive stares after your fucktoys leave.

 She's infuriating. (She's fascinating) 

The food she eats is awful and doesn't make any sense at all. It's basically taking great food and deliberately destroying everything great about it. She says it's healthy. You say it's shit. You don't need to try it to know that bran pancakes must taste like death and satan's asshole. And it's not like you'll ever get the chance to find out. Lexa only ever cooks for herself. She's got her own section in the fridge and you have yours. Hers is neat and organized and practically color coded. Yours is empty. 

Lexa believes in being just and fair, and it's fair – dividing the space so there's less chance of you two interacting. Lexa has decided it's not needed. You don't need to become sisters. You don't need to become anything. 

You'd be inclined to agree if she weren't so... So _her_. 

And her giving up on you before you even had the chance to properly disappoint her is... It isn't a pleasant feeling. It makes you want to prove her right. 

(It doesn't make you un-want her and you hate it) 

// 

Things change one seemingly ordinary Wednesday morning. 

His name is either Glenn or Gregg and he's great for drowning your thoughts out, so you let him. He spends the night and he makes you come once in the morning but you let him think it was twice. Glenn/Gregg leaves having asserted his dominance and stroked his ego. Glenn/Gregg is satisfied and smug and you thank whoever is up there that you won't see him again. It's funny how he thinks he's the one better off in this situation. They are so eager to be used. 

Lexa is entering the house just as you climb down the stairs with Glenn/Gregg laughing at something he said. She's back from her daily run, and her skin is glistening with sweat. 

When she looks at you two, her impassive stare falters, and your stomach tightens in response before you even fully realize what is happening. 

She doesn't like Glenn/Gregg. The twisted satisfaction in your gut is so strong you even follow her to the kitchen, after you kick the guy out. You watch her carefully measure everything she needs for her awful, awful pancakes. She's so consumed by her ritual she doesn't even realize you're standing there, studying her. Her, tall and slim and sculpted and- 

You storm in, cutting yourself off mid-thought. These are the thoughts you don't want to have right now. 

(It doesn't stop you from deliberately brushing up against her as you pass, and the stiffening of her back makes you feel a little funny.)

Your side of the fridge is empty, and Lexa has just enough ingredients for two pancakes. She only ever cooks for herself, and she doesn't understand when you tell her you don't have food. 

But today is the day things take a surprising turn for both of you. 

“You can eat some of mine, if you want,” she says, when you wait for your coffee to be ready. You almost laugh out loud at the distress that shows on her face right after she says the words. You don't want to be the source of her stress. 

Ironic, considering that's all you ever been ever since you've moved in. 

She chances a glance at you, and you morph your expression into one of pure horror. “Yeah, over my dead body, maybe,” you let her know. Without realizing it, her shoulders relax, and she's back to being Lexa. 

“Don’t bring anyone home this weekend, please,” she says. You both know that a please is just a formality. This is an order, and you bristle, but she doesn't let you implode. “I plan on studying. Go to their place instead of my house.” 

The only reason you don't deck her in the face is the absolute absence of any judgment in her voice. The only reason you kinda wanna deck her in the face is the absolute absence of any emotion as well. She's stating a fact. She needs to study and you need to be a nice housemate. 

You're not one to back down from a petty squabble, though. “It’s my house, too.” 

But Lexa is. 

Lexa sighs and shrugs. And then she leaves, just like that. She does that a lot. Sometimes, it seems to you that Lexa doesn't care much about social norms that go further than simple politeness. Sometimes, it seems she's not even aware they exist. 

Just for that, you steal her egg. She's got eleven more in the fridge, and you burn it anyway because karma exists and yours could use some cleansing. 

When she comes back from her shower, you're already gone and taking your own, and no matter how much you scrub, you can't get rid of this fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach every time you remember her face when she offered you pancakes. 

And seriously, who gets butterflies in their stomach over _bran pancakes_? 

(You might be more twisted than you thought.)

//

You didn't plan on coming back home on a Saturday. Ideally, you want to spend the whole weekend out. Drinking and dancing and smoking and wasting your time with people you won't remember the next day. 

(It has nothing to do with the fact Lexa asked you to stay out. You just felt like it.)

Doesn't really matter, anyway. It didn't go according to plan, and you find yourself back at the Woods' residence Saturday afternoon, with Raven and Octavia in tow. O doesn't want to deal with her brother and Raven doesn't want to deal with her parents, so that leaves you and your new place that doesn't quite feels like it's ever gonna become yours. Maybe it won't. You're still hoping your mom will see Mr Woods for a boring, boring man he is and leave him behind. 

Lexa will be left behind, too. Merging with cold white walls and cold hard floors, vibrant green dulling and fading. 

The thought is startling and you slam the door a little harder than necessary to shake yourself out of it. The sound puts you on edge, and you glare at the door, even though you know fully well it's not at fault.

“Whoa,” Raven whistles, pushing past you into the living room and sprawling out on a couch. “What crawled up your ass, Griffin?” 

“She's been weird since this morning,” Octavia agrees, putting her music on and skipping through songs without really listening to any of them. Raven's bluetooth speaker is brand new and powerful, and you think Lexa might have a stroke from the cacophony of sounds whirling through the house. Is she home? You can never really tell. “Last night didn't do it for you? Guess Murphy really does have a pencil dick.”

“Ew!” you're immediately horrified. You've had your fair share of shameful hook ups, but Murphy? Not a chance in hell. “I didn't - God, O, this is fucked up. He hoarded the bathroom so I broke in. We literally spent five minutes in there before I kicked him out.” You roll your eyes. “He was _texting_. In a fucking bathroom. At a party. In a house full of wasted people.” 

“Dick,” Raven agrees. “Pencil dick.” 

You watch them laugh, and it occurs to you that it's – they are _loud_. Living with Lexa conditioned you to think about stuff like appropriate volume of laughter. She broke you, really. 

She also turns out to be home after all. The faces your friends make let you know as much. Raven's smile dims down as she stares over your shoulder, and you turn. Deep green greets you, and it takes some effort for you to pretend you still remember how to breathe. 

Fucking Lexa and her unfairly perfect face. 

“Clarke,” Lexa grits through her teeth. “Could you please be quieter? I’m trying to study.” 

You shouldn't find the way she stresses _trying_ amusing, but you do a lot of things you shouldn't do. Why should this be any different?

Why should she be any different?

You cock your head to the side, studying Lexa. She's wearing jeans and a button up, and you find that really weird. She's at home. And these clothes don't look very comfortable. 

(They do look insanely good, but you aren't going to tell her that.)

You merely shrug. “Well. You have headphones, don't you?”

(You really shouldn't find the way she locks her jaw kind of hot, but you do a lot of things you should not be doing.) 

Lexa turns around and leaves you to stand there, watching her climb up the stairs. They are really huge stairs. Cold and beautiful like everything in this house. Like Lexa. Elegant and empty. 

You find yourself wondering, not for the first time, if anything you've attributed to Lexa is actually true. She doesn't give you much to work with. But is it fair to stick labels and assumptions to her just because she isn't willing to share the truth, whatever that truth might be? 

Lexa's fingers dance over the stair rail as she goes up. Those fingers, deft and elegant, are a far cry from your short and stubby ones. You think they must be familiar with brushes and pencils. Or with piano keys, shiny and polished from frequent use. Or, perhaps, with pens, solid and heavy and metal, filling paper with words that paint pictures from Lexa's mind and soul.

Pens. You bet it's pens. 

(Are those fingers familiar with the way a woman feels inside, hot and velvet and silky?)

(Do you want them to be?)

_Since when is Lexa a constant thought in your head?_

“Your sister's kind of a bitch,” Raven says as you watch Lexa leave, and oh no you are not going there.

“She's not my fucking sister.” 

Upstairs, the door slams. 

//

You can't decide if leaving your room was a good decision or a terrible one. 

When Lexa's towel hits the floor, you lean towards good. Brilliant, really. 

It's just your luck – both ironically and unironically – that you run into a practically naked Lexa on a stairwell later that day. She's toweling her hair and humming under her breath and she doesn't see you at first. But you see her. God, do you see her.

She's wearing boxers that show off her long, toned legs, and – that's it. Nothing else. Lexa, boxers and a towel in her hair. And she's – fuck, it's like she's photoshopped. You paid attention to her body, yes. You know she's got a nice one. You know she's into working out and sports. But the way she looks under those smart clothes – it's utterly unfair. It's like she's sculpted. Every muscle is defined yet lean, rippling under her skin as her arms flex while working on her hair that's dripping water on her chest and stomach and-

_Does she have to have actual abs?_

When you remember how to breathe, air leaves your lungs with a loud gasp, and that's when Lexa freezes, perfectly still before you and, fuck. Her abs jump in shock and you barely suppress a fucking _moan_.

And then her towel slides to the ground. 

She looks absolutely mortified. You don't know how you look. You hope you don't look the way you feel, because the hallway grows way too hot and your eyes just can't find where to fall, so they roam all over her. You can't blame them, really. 

You find yourself wishing you were the one roaming all over her body, and you don't even care. You can't care about anything but Lexa, naked, in front of you. 

You have to stop, you know that. Look anywhere but her. This is invading and really fucking rude. But you just _can't_. She's the most perfect sight you ever laid your eyes on. 

You wonder if her skin is as smooth as it looks, and the thought of getting to trace it with your fingers and lips and tongue is overwhelming and intoxicating. 

Lexa has enough of your staring. She snaps. “Can you turn around?”

For the first time since being introduced to her, you genuinely want to apologize, but you don't trust yourself with words yet. So you comply in silence, hoping she'll get how sorry you are. 

You're not really sure you _are_ , but your thoughts are all over the place. The door to Lexa's room slams for a second time that day, and you finally release your grip on a stair rail. You haven't even realized you were holding onto it. All you can think of is her body and her eyes, wide and intense. Too proud to let you see the shock. Guarded even in a situation like this. 

But, her body- 

You walk to your room on autopilot. Bathroom. Faucet on. Cold water on your cheek. 

_Droplets sliding down Lexa's chest, leaving wet trails behind._

Fuck.

You stumble to your bed feeling drunk. High. 

You can't get her our of your head. She's been a lot in there lately. You won't lie – you have imagined her in a couple of compromising positions before. She's attractive. You're human. Nothing too extraordinary about it. 

But you've never _felt_ like this before. Hot and cold all over, with actual goosebumps covering your skin and with heavy ache set in the pit of your stomach. 

You remember the way her arms reached up to dry her hair. Her well-defined biceps, strong but slender. Lexa isn't bulky and hard like some people you've slept with. She's... _pretty_. 

She's beautiful. Your fingers are inside yourself before you even realize what you're doing. There is this sudden urgency that you just have to settle before you explode. You can't believe how wet she got you. You just _looked_ at her. 

(It feels like _craving_ ) 

You looked at her, but you didn't see her; or, at least, you didn't see _just_ her. You saw what she could _do_. 

To you. 

Long legs to wrap around your waist and strong shoulders to dig your nails into and toned arms holding you up as powerful hips grind into you over and over and over- 

You come pressing your hand to your mouth because for some reason you don't want her to know you're fucking yourself. To the thought of _her_. Because – hearing you fuck other people is one thing. It's not as private. 

_What about thinking of her fucking you while getting yourself off?_

There is one thought running through your head while you try to catch your breath. You can't shake her off. It's a fact. Hell, you just came with her on your mind. And it might be your post-orgasm high talking, but you really see only one logical solution. You just need to get her out of your system. 

One night, and she'll become just like them. Like all of them.

And to her, you'll become what you are to them, as well.

//

It’s been nearly a week since you got an eyeful of Lexa, and you’d be lying if you said you stopped thinking about it.

You already knew you were fixated, but now, she’s become an obsession of sorts. You can’t get her out of your head. You’re so distracted by her you forget to be extra loud when fucking random people. It’s hilarious, in a way – before, when you thought about her during sex, she was outside of the room, somewhere in the house, and you imagined her with her eyes shut in annoyance, deft fingers squeezing a pen. Now, after you saw her standing in the hallway, practically naked – after you fucked yourself to the thought of her - now she’s very much present. Now, instead of imagining her annoyance with you, you simply _imagine her instead._

On the bright side, orgasms became much easier to achieve with her constantly on your mind.

It’s not until you almost cry out her name while with another girl in bed that you realize you have to put a stop to that. Or at least a pause. It can’t be healthy.

So, on Friday, you come back from school and march straight to your room, rummaging through your closet and determinedly shedding clothes you’re wearing, leaving yourself in nothing but bra and panties. It’s Friday. It’s party night at Raven’s house, which means illegal booze courtesy of college guys. And just college guys in general.

Guys are good. Safe. Little to no chance of clinging and “call me” and a bunch of other bullshit excuses you haven’t come up with yet.

(There is no possibility of comparing them to Lexa)

No. No more. No more Lexa.

Except Lexa obviously didn’t get the memo, because when you lift your gaze to critically survey yourself in the mirror, green eyes find yours, wide and shocked.

Oh. The door. Well. Oops.

Lexa is standing in the hallway right outside your room, and looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm. She’s obviously having some sort of inner struggle, and she can’t seem to choose where to land her eyes. You can’t really blame her. In fact, you know perfectly well what it’s like.

If this is karma, you’re certainly not complaining.

Lexa’s eyes venture dangerously close to your boobs, and you mentally congratulate yourself on choosing this exact bra this morning. It’s crimson and clearly does its job, if Lexa’s darkening eyes are any indication. But, like the perfectly stuck up little girl she is, she immediately snaps her gaze up to meet yours.

Your smirk is lazy and smug. “See something you like?”

“No.” her voice is hoarse, and you can’t help but smirk wider. “I’m going out for groceries.”

You nod, a bit confused. It’s not like you both track each other’s movements every second of the day. Maybe she wants to ask if you want anything – but no, that would be too nice. Lexa doesn’t do nice. Lexa sticks to cold and robotic.

Suddenly, you want nothing more than to see some of her perfect control slip. You want under her skin, under her mask. You want it gone, shredded until all that remains is the real Lexa, and you don’t know if she even exists, but if she does, you like to imagine her alight with fire, be it passion or anger or agitation.

When you turn to face her, you think you almost succeed at letting that Lexa out. She becomes visible beneath the frosty surface. You get a tiny glimpse, through the cracks that are flaring nostrils and narrowing eyes and muscles of a locked jaw.

Then, she swallows, turns, and leaves.

//

The party is a bust. Usually, you’re much more into it, but your latest run-in with Lexa left you reeling with something thatyou don’t want to think about.

(A glimpse. You got a glimpse. You want more.)

You need a distraction. Two of them; one liquid and bitter and strong, the other tall and handsome and in no way resembling Lexa. You find both of them within half an hour, and there’s really no point in wasting time at the party any longer.

You notice Lexa’s car parked near the house when you stumble in through the door with a stranger’s tongue down your throat, and the tiniest grin escapes you when Gregg– George? – finally takes his lips off yours to leave sloppy kisses down your neck. So she’s home. Perfect. Maybe, she’ll get so fed up with you disrupting her sleep she’ll storm into your room, eyes angry and cheeks flushed. Maybe.

Her door is open. That’s the first thing you see when you make your way upstairs. It’s never open.

“Hey –” the guy you brought home starts when you push him away, but you cut him off with an impatient wave, walking to Lexa’s door. You’re suddenly reminded of all the horror movies you’ve watched. Empty house and open door and weird circumstances. You don’t know what would be more unexpected: an actual monster orLexa pulling a prank.

Second one. Of course, second one. Except it’s neither. You push the door open, and her room is empty, her bed immaculate and untouched. You glance at her bedside clock. A little past midnight. Lexa’s never out at this hour. And her car is here.

You don’t even spare Gregg a glance when you turn around and go downstairs. He trails after you, confused.

“Clarke?” Wow. He remembered your name. Husband material right there. “Everything okay?” He’s sober, unlike you, otherwise you would have never let him drive you home – at least you hope you wouldn’t have.

“My – um. Lexa is missing,” you blurt out.

He blinks. “Your Lexa?”

“Stepsister.” You don’t even know why you’re still talking to him. “She’s gone. Look, I’m sorry, but I gotta call raincheck.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Thankfully, he’s nice enough of a guy not to push it. “It’s cool.” George leaves you standing on the porch when you both walk outside, and gives you a small wave when he starts the car. You don’t wave back.

Where the hell is Lexa?

_Why are you so concerned with her whereabouts?_

Because this isn’t about your messy relationship with her, you reason. This is serious.

Her car is still there, so you go to check it first. It’s completely illogical for Lexa to be in the car, but you’re drunk and worried enough to entertain the possibility. In the end, it works out. Because here Lexa is, curled on a fully reclined front seat, looking as uncomfortable as a person sleeping in a car can.

You start knocking on the window before you start questioning what she’s doing there. You watch as she prettily frowns in her sleep, brows furrowing and lips pouting. The sudden urge to trace them with your finger is overwhelming, so you knock harder. You don’t stop until Lexa wakes with a start, her unfocused eyes flying open. She blinks, and you almost lower your hand when her eyes grow wide with panic. She looks like she’s about to bolt, or cry, or scream.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until your hand is back on the window, pounding against glass. Lexa gives a tiny jump before turning her head and finally seeing you. Her eyes narrow in confusion and then recognition before she rolls them at you.

Oh, that’s right. Still knocking.

You giggle, lowering your hand. “Why are you sleeping in the car?”

Lexa climbs out of the car before replying to her, and you wince with sympathy when she rolls her head back and forth. “I got groceries,” she says. Okay. Still doesn’t answer her question, but okay. Lexa grabs the bags and doesn’t let you help. Rude.

When you reach the door, she’s already there, patiently staring at you. You stare back. Green eyes quickly scan you before widening ever so slightly. Is there something on your dress?

“Clarke,” Lexa says, falsely calm. “Where is your bag?”

What a weird question. You try not to sway when you answer. “On the counter.”

“Okay. Then where are your keys?” Despite – or because – Lexa’s voice being quiet, something inside you shrinks. You feel like a child scolded by a parent.

“In the bag,” you let her know. “On the counter.”

Lexa blinks. “Wait,” she says. “So you already opened the door?”

You just stare at her, hoping she feels your judgment, before reaching out and turning the doorknob. Next, you push the door open and gesture for Lexa to enter. You think you can almost hear her teeth grinding together when she storms inside, kicking her shoes off and heading straight to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the counter.

You’re so busy watching her back muscles flex under her leather jacket you almost miss her soft-spoken question. “How did you know I was in the car?”

You shrug. You didn’t exactly know. “You weren’t in your room.”

Lexa’s voice goes up several octaves, indignant at the new information. “You went into my room?” She sure knows how to be grateful. You could’ve not given it a second thought. Left her to spend the night in the car. And all she’s worried about is whether or not you went into her room?

“Door was open,” you say. “It’s never open. So I checked.”

Lexa doesn’t ask any more questions, and you resume studying her through hazy eyes. Both of you are silent, but you don’t mind. You’ve noticed not so long ago that Lexa being silent isn’t a bad sign. It’s just her being Lexa. With most people, silence means you’ve upset them. With Lexa, it means she’s okay with your presence.

You think it’s nice.

You also think she looks hot in a leather jacket.

“Oh,” Lexa speaks up suddenly, closing the fridge door and finishing stuffing bags inside other bags. “Can you give me your number?”

You barely resist laughing out loud. That’s right. You still don’t have each other’s number. Isn’t it fucked up – living with a person and caring so little you never ask for their number? Knowing they’d be the last person you’d think of if an emergency arises?

Except Lexa is asking for it now. So you give it to her and try to ignore strange light feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Your phone rings next, and you blink, startled. Did Gregg change his mind?  “Fuck,” you mutter. “He’s looking for me. I told him to go away.”

The phone is still ringing, and it’s getting on your nerves, so you push yourself off of the doorpost. It takes some effort. Considerable effort. Alcohol must be setting in, you think, before you trip over nothing and head straight to the floor. Cold, marble floor. You never do find out if it’s as hard as it looks, because Lexa dives in and catches you around your waist, so instead of crashing to the floor, you both slide down to it.

It’s cold. Lexa’s warm. You suddenly find it all awfully funny.

“Oops,” you say and laugh. Lexa looks like she’s torn between strangling you and letting you fall. She goes for the third option and stands, helping you up. It’s a difficult task, mainly because of you, but she manages, steadying you each time you trip over nothing. She’s strong. Very strong. As strong as you imagined her to be when you thought of her late at night, recalling the way her abs jumped and her biceps flexed when she toweled her hair, oblivious to your astonished gaze. She’s not oblivious to it now.

To be fair, there isn’t a lot youcan stare at when she’s squeezing you in her toned arms. Your eyes automatically fall to her lips, and not for the first time you wonder if they really are as soft as you think they are. They have to be. So perfectly plump –you almost asked her once or twice if she gets injections.

What happens next isn’t entirely unexpected, at least to you. It’s – it’s logical. You lick your lips, Lexa stares at them, so you lean in, closing your eyes, because that’s what you do when you’re drunk and people stare at your lips the way Lexa does.

It is, however, apparently unexpected to Lexa. She recoils so sharply you almost fall.

 “Clarke,” Her voice sounds strangled, almost pained. “What the hell are you doing?”

Really?

You open your eyes and quickly look at Lexa who’s wide-eyed and blinking. She looks cute, whether you want to admit that or not. Actually – you’re way past denial. She’s cute. And hot. And the reason you both brought and then kicked out a very promising lay.

So you shrug and grab the back of her neck, smashing your lips together. You were right. Her lips are unfairly, outrageously soft. But you want to know what she tastes like.

Lexa opens her mouth as soon asyou lick at her bottom lip, and her taste is – you can’t describe it. She’s minty and sharp and there’s something spicy yet sweet, something… Something entirely Lexa. You already can’t get enough of it.

But Lexa can.

She pushes you away just when you were about to deepen the kiss more, to turn it dirty and delicious and rough. You almost whine at the loss, because – you’ve kissed a lot of people, and none of them can compare to this drunken, clumsy barely-kiss you just shared with your step-sister. You don’t know what it is – the fact that she’s something that should be off-limits, the unbelievable softness of her lips, the state you’re in – but you know you won’t be able to stop yourself from trying to taste her again. For now, you savor her on your lips, heated and raw and delicious.

“I won’t sleep with you.” Lexa speaks up, husky. You almost pity her. She doesn’t sound like she means it. You know she doesn’t. No one kisses back the way she did and then means what she just said.

You open your eyes, and the sight before you sends pleasant shocks through your system. Lexa is flushed, with her breathing ragged and her hands forming fists at her sides.

You see her. You finally see her.

 _I won’t sleep with you._ Maybe.

“I’m not asking you to.” You don’t mean your words, either.

Lexa shakes her head. “Good.’ For the second time that day, she runs, leaving you behind to stare at her until you can no longer see her.

Good.

//

This is bad. This is worse than bad. It’s awful. And yet, you can’t stop it or yourself.

You want Lexa. It doesn’t come to you as a surprise - wouldn’t come to anyone as a surprise if someone were to observe every little thing you’ve been doing these last few weeks. maybe more. Maybe even right from the start, when your eyes met vibrant green, but - you don’t want to think about it.

You just want Lexa in your bed. You decide to settle on that. She’s beautiful - breathtaking, you think - so it makes sense. There’s plenty of room in your bed for beautiful people.

It doesn’t exactly explain why you spend your evenings sprawled on a couch next to her while she quietly grits her teeth and tries to watch some boring documentary. Maybe you just want to rile her up. Get under her skin - that’s the expression, isn’t it?

You’d still much rather get under her crisp white shirt. And it looks like Lexa’s aware of that. It’s really just a matter of who snaps first. Your mom gives you both an opportunity to find out.

“Are you girls getting along okay?” she asks when she calls, and you let her immediately continue without replying. “Charles and I are in Czech. It’s so beautiful! We are thinking of staying here for a little while. Couple of days. Will you be okay with that?”

You don’t really understand the point of her asking you. It’s not like it’ll change anything. But she’s expectantly silent, so you shrug, glance at Lexa who’s pretending not to listen in, and say ‘okay’. Another week - maybe two - of having the town to yourselves. How tragic.

Another week - maybe two - to get Lexa to sleep with you and be done with it. With her. That’s your plan - to literally fuck her out of your system, because you can’t afford this tightening in your chest every time you so much as glance at her. She’s so - you don’t have words for her, however cliche that sounds. Intriguing. Maybe that’s the word. Beautiful, too, but you already said that. Perfect for drawing - your sketchbook, filled with her face, is a testament to that.

She’s unattainable and forbidden. That’s all. That’s the reason you can’t get her out of your head. You’re almost completely sure of that.

Almost.

//

You’re sure of one thing, though - annoying Lexa will never be not fun. She gets all pissy and jaw-locked and okay, maybe annoying her isn’t just fun. It’s kinda hot. All kinds of hot, more like - so you keep doing it. At this point, you’re not even sure if you’re having sex for the sake of having sex or because you want Lexa to be angry with you.

It’s fucked up. It suits you.

Plus, the way tips of her ears turn red in embarrassment. Like right now, for example. You never pegged her for a shy type. Then again, most people are usually embarrassed when they walk in on their step-sister fucking a girl that kinda looks like them. You wonder if she noticed that.

Of course you knew what you were doing when you left the door to your room open.

Lexa’s eyes are wide and shocked and dark. When her gaze meets yours, you shiver, and it has nothing to do with the toy that’s inside you. That’s attached to the girl under you. You watch Lexa’s gaze fall between your moving hips, and the way it heats up almost makes you moan. But you don’t. You can’t. Your breath is caught in your throat because this is Lexa looking at you. Really looking at you, and god knows what’s going through that brilliant head of hers.

You wonder if, for a split second, she imagines herself under you, her hands gripping your thighs, fingers leaving sweet bruises. You feel a tiny smirk forming on your lips at the thought.

Lexa scowls.

“Clarke,” she growls. Her eyes are on yours again, and it’s like they are burning through you. Her anger makes you clench, and this time, you can’t stop a small sigh. The girl underneath you jumps up in surprise, panicked, and it only spurs you on further. But Lexa isn’t having any of it, apparently. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shit,” your bed partner says. “Who was that? Your girlfriend?” she’s a little on the dense side. Because really, what kinda girlfriend would storm in on their significant other fucking someone else just to yell at them to shut up?

“No,” you reply, breath ragged. “No. We - she’s my step-sister. Does it matter?” the question is punctuated with a roll of your hips.

“I guess it doesn’t.”

What a great answer.

//

Lexa has a date.

The text she’s sent says she’s having a guest over, but you know her. You live with her, for fuck’s sake. Lexa doesn’t have guests over. It’s totally a date.

You hate the uneasy coiling you get in your stomach when you read her text again, where she asks you to go somewhere. She’s courteous, you’ll give her that - she could have taken this opportunity to have her revenge, loudly fucking that girl all night long so you could hear.

Unless - maybe it’s the kind of date that doesn’t end in sex.

The coiling in your gut tightens.

There’s a brief half-thought, half-feeling that maybe you shouldn’t do this - maybe, you should just let her be, this once. But - really, what did she expect? She basically invited you to join them with that text. This is not something you can miss. Lexa on a date - this promises to be hilarious.

Or not, you think to yourself when you creep down the stairs and watch Lexa smoothly place her hand on the girl’s knee and confidently start leaning in for a kiss. So she has game. Fine. You have game, too.

You’re so consumed by your childish train of thought you don’t realize you’re plopping next to them on the couch until it’s too late. They are jarred away from each other when you do so, and your chest feels a little lighter.

“Oh, Little Mermaid! My favorite. Good choice,” you exclaim when you see the TV screen. Lexa has this weird obsession with Disney movies that you don’t get. You’re largely indifferent towards them. Not to popcorn, though - you notice a large bowl of it placed on the coffee table right in front of you, so you dig in. It’s delicious, just like you expect it to be. Anything Lexa makes is delicious.

You might exaggerate its deliciousness just a little bit, moaning and licking your lips. Lexa frowns.  

“You hate Disney movies,” she grumbles. It doesn’t escape your notice that her gaze is fixated on your mouth as you pick popcorn out of your hand with it. You throw in tongue just for the hell of it, and her frown deepens.

Lexa’s date - you think her name is Luna, but you’re not sure - only blinks as she watches you bicker. She's pretty. Wide innocent eyes and curly hair. She looks exactly like the kind of girl Disney movies and popcorn are made for.

She looks nothing like you.

 

You scoff at Lexa. “What? No I don’t! I love this one.” Really, you can’t miss an opportunity like this one when it’s offered to you on a silver platter. “It’s better down where it’s wetter.”

The tips of Lexa’s ears grow red from the slow, lazy wink you throw her way. Looks like she understood what you were getting at - not that it was particularly hard.

“Clarke.” she growls. You widen your eyes at that, part giddy and part mocking. “Would you mind going to your room, please?”

Rude. She must be ready to snap. Just like you wanted. So you call her out on that. “Are you telling me to get lost? Seriously? It’s my house too. I’m about to become your little sister in six months. Griffin-Woods and all. Don’t you think we should learn to share?”

Lexa looks ready to kill. You wonder if it’s because of your words or just because of you. Maybe it’s both, combined. You watch her through hooded eyes, contemplating her next move - will she really lose it in front of her date? Will she drag you out of the living room and scold you, cold rage coloring her voice, or -

Lexa’s date messes everything up. Of course.  “Maybe I should go?” She asks quietly. her eyes are unsure as they flick between you and Lexa.

“You don’t have to,” Lexa tells her. Interesting. So she’s hoping to get something out of it, still.

Maybe you should try harder.

(You don’t question the sudden urge to drive Lexa’s date away.)

“Okay,” Luna replies. You haven’t missed the way she shoved Lexa’s hand from her thigh earlier - but you also don’t miss the way she leans into Lexa now, all easy smiles and shy glances.

Even if you haven’t interfered - this really doesn’t look like the kind of date that ends with sex.

The ache somewhere deep in your chest is unsettling.

//

 

Luna leaves, and Lexa is furious with you. It's not something that happens often. It's not something that happens _ever_. You're torn between feeling scared and thrilled.

(That's a lie. You're excited beyond belief - it's twisted and wrong and you love it. You think that perhaps Lexa will learn to love it, too.)

“I hope you're happy.”

(Or not.)

“I hope you're fucking satisfied,” Lexa continues to growl after she's backed you into a wall, eyes bright green and face twisted in a scowl. So angry. So pretty. “Except you’re not, are you? Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Well. You were kinda hoping she didn't, but she's smart. You know that.

God, you've never met a person with a glare this intense. This scalding cold. “Because I do, Clarke. But maybe you don’t know what it is that you want.” Lexa leans in closer. You doubt she even realizes what she's doing. She's snarling at you, not unlike a wild animal. A painter, you think to yourself, and shiver. Sleek and dangerous and lethal.

Lexa isn't finished. “Let me help you out, then. You want to sleep with me, but you’re too much of a coward to say it. Or, maybe, you’re just that twisted and this game you’ve been playing turns you on far too much for you to stop. Admit it. You want me, don’t you? You’re hoping I break and jump into your bed if you push me far enough.”

It’s unfair - how she can see right through you while staying completely unreadable herself. Even right now, you’re not entirely sure if she wants to kiss you or kill you. Lexa is entirely predictable in some aspects and just as entirely unpredictable in others.

It shouldn’t excite you this much. It still does.

You watch her watch you - burn through you with her gaze, more like it. it cuts you open, mercilessly and meticulously, and you almost welcome it.

She’s waiting, you realize with a start. Waiting for you to give her a sign, the green light, the red light. She will accept either. Even like this, with her chest heaving, full of cold rage - she’ll accept anything you’ll give her. It’s up to you. All of it, it’s on you - the decision and the responsibility.

She’s giving you an out, but she’s giving one to herself, too. She’s brilliant. She’s infuriating.

You’re already waiting for her lips when you slide a hand up her arm, gripping onto her bicep. And Lexa doesn’t make you wait long. “Fine.”

She growls fine and her mouth is hot and wet on yours. Lexa. All you can taste and feel, all you’re surrounded with is pure Lexa, always smelling like she’s fresh out of the shower, always looking like she’s ready to be painted with delicate strokes - always in black and white, always with her lips in a serious pout. You’re not sure if it’s your artistic soul or insanity, but you know that right now, in this moment, Lexa is absolute perfection.

And she hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Fuck,” the rough gasp falls from your lips before you have a chance to catch it. You didn’t mean to slip up like this. You don’t mean to be this wanton with her, but for the first time since your first love, you’re struggling to maintain control. Noises escape you, no matter how much you try to stop them - they are small and embarrassingly needy and nothing like the annoyingly loud ones you’ve been screaming out for Lexa to hear. But then, she curls her tongue and drags it across the roof of your mouth, her lips sucking on yours, and you suddenly don’t care.

You barely manage to hold in a frustrated whimper when she breaks the kiss, resting her forehead on yours. Her breathing is uneven. Rough. It’s the most rattled you’ve seen her since the stairwell incident, and you think you like it. You like her like this - wild, unhinged. You want to see more of this Lexa.

You want to be the only cause of this Lexa. The thought is loud and scary, so you recoil from it, instead focusing on the girl pressing you into the wall. How is her body both hard and soft at the same time?

The thought comes back, and you speak up just so it goes away again. “Well. You got me. I did cockblock you tonight. Sorry. The least I could do is let you fuck me, I guess.” It’s spiteful and mocking and everything you don’t really feel, but it suits this, and it’s enough for Lexa. It’s what Lexa expects. A hate fuck against the wall. You wonder if she’ll leave bruises. You wonder if you want her to. You wonder-

Lexa’s hand thrusts down your shorts, and your mind goes blank. You vaguely recognize yourself helping Lexa slide your shorts down and kicking them to the side, but that’s about it. There is no thinking anymore - there is only feeling, strong and primal and desperate.

Lexa’s body, Lexa’s awed face, Lexa’s fingers between your legs, and your head spinning so hard you’re almost afraid you’ll faint. That’s all you know. That’s all you care about.

She’s so gentle at first. It scares you.

No one’s ever been gentle with you.

“Fuck.” Lexa’s voice is full of wonder, and it makes you shudder. It makes you want to push her away and run upstairs and lock in your room. You don’t do any of that. “You're... You're so wet. Fuck.”

Your knees almost give out at that. You hope to god she doesn’t notice what her voice and words are capable of doing to you, so you let out an annoyed groan. “Knew you'd be a talker.” You didn’t - you hoped, a little bit, but - right now, it’s too much. You don’t think you’ll be able to handle hearing her like this. So, before she can speak up again, you tangle your fingers in Lexa’s long, soft hair and gently tug at it, meeting her lips with yours.

(You think you’d be perfectly content just kissing her like this)

You’re sure you’re close to a freak-out, but Lexa saves you when she thrusts two fingers inside you, sharp and deep.

You cry out, but she’s not done. Her fingers curl and her strokes are fast and hard, and it’s almost enough to topple you over the edge. You cling to her,  spreading your legs a little bit wider, moaning a little bit louder. That’s the thing - you like being loud during sex. It makes everything feel better. If a person you’re fucking isn’t particularly good, being loud can somewhat salvage the situation for you.

But with Lexa, you don’t have to artificially heighten your enjoyment. With Lexa, it’s already at its peak.

Who knew Lexa Woods the valedictorian would be so good in bed?

You sure hoped. Right now, she’s more than meeting your expectations. Maybe it’s the situation, too; the way she has you pinned to the wall in the hallway of her pristine, dead house, the way she’s pounding inside you, fast and almost punishing. You don’t know.

You just know your head hasn’t stopped spinning since she’s kissed you.

And then, Lexa makes it better. She hoists you up on her hips, and your legs automatically entwine her waist. She has you bare and open before her. hers for the taking. The thought is enough to make you clench, so hard you’re afraid you’re coming already. There’s nothing more you hate than a wasted orgasm - the one that comes too early and too sharply, leaving everyone disappointed and empty. But no, you’re still balancing on the edge, ready for Lexa to give you one last push.

And Lexa’s ready to give it to you.

The new angle is heaven, you decide when Lexa starts to move again, driving her fingers deeper. But this new angle also means you can handle more. You need more - you need to be stretched and filled to the brim. You feel hollow, and it drives you mad. So you ask her.

“I... Uh! Fuck! More.” Lexa doesn’t get it at first - she increases her speed, and the mild discomfort it brings you clears the haze that’s been wrapped around your brain since the kiss. It helps you concentrate, at least. You claw at her shoulder, hoping it’s not too weak and she’ll feel it through her leather jacket. “Mmm... fingers... more,” she pants. “Another one.”

When Lexa complies, you actually scream. When Lexa puts her thumb back on your clit, you break.

It ripples through you, overwhelming and consuming. You’re hyperaware of Lexa, suddenly; of her fingers inside you, of her body holding you up, of her stare on you, quiet and awed and hungry. You’re also very aware of you clenching around her fingers; of your legs trembling and your back arching off the wall.

At least you didn’t scream her name.

Boy, were you wrong.

Lexa’s teeth close on your neck just as you are about to come down from your high, and your next orgasm is so good you don’t even have it in yourself to be embarrassed with how fast you fell apart.

“Lexa!”

You think you want to scream it again. Over and over. Chant it until it become the only word you remember.

Yeah, she’s that good.

She’s also leaving, and the expression on her face is undecipherable. But there’s something in her eyes - something you can’t quite place, but something that makes your chest expand, just a little bit.

There’s no doubt in your mind this is happening again, even with her turning and running away from you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out [my tumblr](http://geralehane.tumblr.com) for a link to my other works! 
> 
> enjoy your read!

Lexa is weird.

That's not exactly a revelation - you knew it already. There is something about her that you can't quite place; a tad too precise, a tad too neat. But, then again, perhaps you're so used to typical teenage debauchery Raven and O are so keen on bringing into your life, you forget responsible teens exist, too.

Yet there is just something about her…

But. As weird as Lexa is sometimes, the way she's holding herself now around you is completely expected. Normal. Human.

She's avoiding you. Or, at least, trying to avoid you. Poor, clueless Lexa who has no idea you memorized her routine practically by heart - not that it was difficult. She wakes up at six and goes running. At seven she’s in the kitchen, preparing ingredients and quietly sighing to herself when you drag yourself out of bed and rummage through your half of the fridge that you already know is empty. Quick shower, putting on clothes that you’re sure she prepared the night before. Cooking something absolutely inedible under your stare, sighing some more, and then she’s gone, her father’s Lexus carefully starting on the road.

Lexa driving a Lexus. You still can’t get over how hilarious it is.

Your point is, it’s not hard to corner her since you know where she is at any given point during the day. Night, too. You’re still not sure why you don’t. She wants you, that much is clear. You want her, too - sometimes, you feel like it’s impossible not to.

Her being unaware of how pretty she is only makes her all the more delicious.

You reason you don’t wanna spook her - and Lexa totally strikes you as the type of person to freak out over every little thing. Fucking her own step-sister must have been causing a quiet meltdown in her brain ever since it happened.

Your parents coming home right in the middle of your very own Cold War is both a relief and a disappointment. Same goes for the news that they will be leaving in two weeks.

On one hand, you already can’t wait. On the other, you have Lexa not looking at you throughout the whole dinner, and it only adds to the awkwardness of the entire affair. You try to fight your way through it, your phrasing of words sharp and mocking and downright crude at times. You’d take scandal over this fake, oblivious silence. But all of your attempts fail. Every single one. The parental unit doesn’t rise to the bait, and Lexa doesn’t raise her eyes.

Fine. Whatever.

“Thank you, dear,” Lexa’s dad speaks up, and your eyes flicker to Lexa’s that focus on his face. You think you see the smallest light die in them when he continues, addressing your mother. “Dinner was delicious.” You might be wrong, though.

You sigh and drop your eyes to the supposedly delicious dinner Mr Woods is talking about. Maybe you should give him a dictionary for his birthday. This plate full of green stuff, half of which you can’t even name, stewed together with a chicken breast, is tasteless at best. You just want normal food. A cheeseburger sounds heavenly right now.

(You just want something normal, for once - but, perhaps, normal is not for you. Not in this lifetime.)

Lexa’s still chewing when you look at her, slow and careful, and she still hasn’t lifted her eyes.

She’s so still. So proper. But she can’t fool you, not anymore. You remember another her, nostrils flaring, cold rage of her gaze burning through you. You remember Lexa that had you pinned against the wall, only her body and her fingers inside you stopping you from falling over. You remember her angry, primal, sexy. Her lips on yours and her arms around you and her teeth in your skin.

The memory alone makes you clench, and you shift on your chair, sharply aware of uncomfortable, inappropriate wetness between your legs.

“Honey,” your mother says, and you curse. She’s like a T-Rex. If you don’t move, she won’t see you. If you do, though… “You haven’t even touched your food.”

“Oh, it’s okay, mom.” the words form in your brain, and you start speaking before you really think them through. “I, uh, stocked up on… protein earlier. Did you know it comes in milkshakes now?” you stare at Lexa as you continue. “Delicious.”

You gotta be honest - you’re already grossing yourself out with this sperm metaphor, but Lexa’s reaction is more than worth it. She chokes on her food and starts coughing violently. eyes wide.

You smirk.

(She’s finally looking at you.)

“Lexa? Is something wrong with your meal?” Your mom, ever the concerned parent, reaches out to pat her back. Lexa pushes her hand away, polite and cold.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

The glare she sends your way tells you she’s anything but, and your smirk grows wider as you wink at her. Of course, she looks away. The muscles of her jaw twitch in irritation, and you swallow as you watch that sharp jaw line become even more pronounced.

She’s fucking regal, that’s what she is. You can’t wait till you fuck Her Majesty. Can’t wait to have it all stripped away, leaving her breathless and sweaty and panting under you.

You’re not sure if you want to break her or to be broken by her, and you don’t think it really matters.

Her dad, the dense man he is, tries to be a helpful step-dad and offers to give you some lame recipe book with protein-based meals in them. All because of a stupid joke. Pun. Whatever. You don’t even like giving guys blowjobs all that much. You’re awesome at them, sure, but that’s not something that gets you going.

With girls, though – with girls, it’s a whole other deal.

You barely contain your laughter after Mr. Woods finishes talking. Lexa’s looking at you again, and you decide to mess with her just a little more. “Oh, um,” you’re smiling so wide you’re surprised you can talk. “That's really nice of you to offer, Mr. Woods, but I'm thinking of switching to something else. To, um, honey.”

Lexa’s gaze darkens, and you shift on your chair again, crossing your legs and squeezing your thighs. God, you think to yourself. Your mother is right there, Clarke.

It’s not completely your fault, though.

Mr. Woods blinks. “A diet based on... honey?”

“Yes,” you say. “It's good for your memory.”

“Huh,” Lexa's father says. “Interesting.”

Of course you jump at your chance to be alone with her when she frantically tries to flee, mumbling something about doing the dishes. To be fair, you are kind of the cause of her abrupt attempt at escaping this whole thing.

So you stand up with her. “I'll help.”

“Aw,” you barely manage not to roll your eyes when your mom speaks, looking between the two of you. “It's so nice you girls are getting along.”

Mr. Woods nods. “I guess spending quality time together has done them some good,” he chuckles. Well. You simply cannot pass up an opportunity like that. Surely, Lexa has to understand.

“Oh,” you purr. “You have no idea.”

It’s only because Lexa looks like she’s gonna burst any minute with how tense she is that you decide to take it easy for the rest of the night. Not a word is uttered as they clean up, you gathering the dishes and Lexa putting away the leftovers. You watch her critically survey the food, obviously struggling with some kind of a personal dilemma before putting plastic wrap over plates and stocking the fridge. You wonder what it’s about.

Lexa finishes and joins you at the sink. You purposefully stand a little to the left so that the spot right in front of the sink is free for Lexa to stand. You don’t like washing dishes and you like watching her forearms flex. It’s a win-win, really.

She hands you plates, and you dry them. Together, you make a rather efficient team, although you’re sure you could have been faster if you didn’t insist on standing so close to her. But it’s like you can’t help yourself. Each time your arms and shoulders brush against each other, it’s a pleasant jolt through your system. You know what these shoulders feel like under your hands. What these arms are capable of. She held you up so easily, so effortlessly. You really, really want her to do it again.

But you can’t spook her. So you limit yourself to occasional incidental touching and amused glances and try not to take it further.

(God, she’s tense.)

You get a little tired by the time she hands you the fourth plate. Why do you even have to do dishes? It’s 2016, who does dishes anymore? You glance down, trying to locate a dishwasher. It may sound embarrassing, but you’ve only now realized this house doesn’t have it. That’s weird.

You voice your thoughts. Or, try to, because Lexa seemingly waited for a perfect moment to blow up, and your voice is, apparently, a great trigger. “You know, it's weird that you guys don't-”

“Honey? Really?” You blink in surprise, lifting her eyes to look at her face. She’s staring in the sink with an incredulous expression. “A diet based on honey?”

You grin. “You sound like your dad. What?” You ask when she turns to look at you. “You didn't like my clever metaphor that only the two of us are in on?”

“No,” Lexa says flatly. “That's the worst metaphor for vaginal fluids I've ever heard.” She’s still tense, but there is a hint of weary exasperation in her voice. Like a teacher scolding her troublemaker student for an umpteenth time.

Lexa. A teacher. Holy shit.

"Well excuse me if I'm no Sappho," you scoff out loud, hoping she doesn’t notice the lust in your eyes at the thought of her wearing glasses and a suit. Lexa’s head snaps up again, looking at your with eyes sharp and surprised, and you raise your eyebrows. “What? We live in the same house. I saw you read her work. And even if I didn't, it's not that much of a stretch. You like to read and you're really gay. So you must've read Sappho at some point.”

You’re pretty happy with your deductive skills. But Lexa – she doesn’t seem impressed. She doesn’t seem unimpressed, either. It’s like she simply accepts your words. Mulls them over and agrees, and somehow, it’s much, much better than her being surprised with your reasoning.

Her being impressed would mean she didn’t consider you intelligent in the first place.

"Then you must've read her work as well?" she asks curiously, and you shake your head no.

"I'm missing one of the prerequisites," you let her know. Now Lexa is the one who raises an eyebrow, pointedly. You just roll your eyes. "Not that one.” Obviously. “I don't like to read, Lexa." That’s not exactly true. You used to read a lot with your dad. The two of you would sit next to each other, you sprawled on the couch and him lounging in his favorite chair. Sometimes, he would read to you. Sometimes, you’d do the same to him.

You were on chapter five of _The Glass Castle_ when he died.

But you don’t – you don’t want to think about it.

Lexa’s the one who’s studying you, for a change. You wonder if she finds what she’s looking for, because you never seem to. The plate she gives you is accepted in silence that continues for several minutes before you speak again, eager to chase the remains of the previous topic.

“It's weird with them here.”

Lexa nods. “You get used to having the house to yourself,” she says quietly. The implications of her words hit you unexpectedly. She’s used to having the house to herself. For how long has she been the sole owner of this beautiful, dead mansion? You’ve been on your own for a year. Lexa’s been alone far longer than that.

Is that why she follows her routine, obsessively and artificially creates the sense of something being present? Clings to habits that will always be there and won’t ever leave – because she’s the one who controls whether they stay or not?

Is her current present your near future?

“…yeah,” you croak out, blinking when she looks at you, hurriedly stashing your thoughts away so she can’t see them in your eyes.

“Did you get used to it?” Lexa asks. Her voice is so calm. So – naïve. She looks small, suddenly, in the enormity of this beautiful kitchen, and you just – you just want to grab her and… hold her, kiss her, hug her – you’re not sure.

Is this pity?

(Is this something more than that?)

It’s something you don’t wanna deal with right now, for sure, so you decide you need a change of pace. Your smirk is lazy and suggestive. It’s your patented panty-dropping one, as Raven puts it. She claims it almost worked on her once. “Well. Yes. For numerous reasons.”

One of them is standing before you, the tips of her ears reddening just slightly.

“Right.” Lexa clears her throat. “I imagine it must be hard. You know. Having sex so often and then having to just... stop.”

Once again, you’re taken aback with how free of judgment she sounds. She’s simply stating a fact. You like that about her. She’s not quick to assume. As far as you’ve understood, all Lexa wants is to be left alone. As long as you grant her that, she’ll let you be. Do whatever you want with you life.

Too bad the only thing you wanna do is _her_.

You shrug. “I can always go solo,” you hint, but Lexa’s face remains blank, and you sigh, dropping the smirk. There’s a little bit of truth to her words, you gotta admit. It will be a little inconvenient. But, “that's not the problem. It's just... I'll have to keep quiet now.”

That’s the real inconvenience, to put it mildly. For so many reasons. You like being loud. You also like letting Lexa know you’re having the orgasm of your life, however fake it might or might not be. With your mother back home, that’ll be a little difficult.

There’s always a silver lining, though. Now, in order for Lexa to know you’re coming, she’ll have to be the one to make you come. It all works out, really.

You’re so lost in your musings you almost miss hearing Lexa laugh for the first time. It’s something you won’t ever forget, even if you don’t know it yet. Subconsciously, you try to commit it to memory as much as possible, no matter how brief, how quiet it was. Lexa’s laugh is surprisingly melodic. Soft. She closes both of her eyes when she bursts out laughing. You wonder how many people know that.

Lexa notices you staring at her, and you snap your mouth shut, only now realizing you went jaw-slacked. It’s tense again, and warm. Lexa breaks the silence first. “Yeah. I know how much you like being loud,” she says, and whoa, is it you or is she being… suggestive?

Your eyes widen before you narrow them, smirking. "It's a pity I can't say the same," you say, and yeah you’re being fucking suggestive. Lexa swallows, subtly, and her throat bobs so, so prettily you just want to run your teeth across it.  "You didn't give me a chance to find out."

You practically squeal with delight, inwardly, when Lexa doesn’t back down. Instead, she turns to face her with her whole body, fully aware of your gaze on her lips.

"Would you like to find out?” Her voice is unfair. Low and rumbling. She’s so full of herself in this moment.

You like it. You like it a lot.

"You felt for yourself how much I would like to,” you say, and you almost laugh at the way Lexa’s face twists, clearly remembering your almost-night together. Is she thinking of her fingers stroking deep inside you? Of your lips on hers, of your body wrapped around her, your legs spread just for her?

Does she want to re-live it all over again?

"Girls?"

Fucking hell – of course your mother chooses to remind you of her presence now.

“Shit,” you utter as you grab onto the sink to stay upright. The two of you practically jumped from each other the moment your mom called out from the living room.

"Is everything okay?"

"We're fine, mom!" you shout back, rolling your eyes. They land on Lexa next. Lexa, who’s wincing, as if in pain.

This is not the first time you’re noticing her cringing at loud noises, and you’re not talking about yourself. Well, not only yourself. She frowns at birds chirping outside her window and at car horns and, yes, at you slamming doors and yelling from the other room.

Lexa’s life is complete, silent order, and there is something about it… "You don't like it when people yell, do you?" You ask, cocking your head to the side.

She takes the plate from your hand, putting it into the cabinet that is most decidedly not the one you’ve been putting dishes in this whole time. You bite your lip apologetically. Shit. You know how much she likes order. It must have been killing her the whole night.

Why didn’t she say anything?

"Don't psychoanalyze me," Lexa says. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

It’s a little chilly when you finish up.

//

 _To Kill a Mockingbird._ You read it with your father in sixth grade. You remember saying he was much better than Atticus because Atticus scolded Scout for getting into a fight and your dad gave you a discreet high-five for punching Billy Donovan in the nose a year ago.

He laughed at that and let you sit on his lap, just like Atticus did with Scout. “Out of all of my parental shortcomings, you pick the one I’m least proud of,” he told you that day.

But you don’t want to talk about it.

You pick up the book and turn it over in your hands. Lexa must have left it downstairs; you saw her reading it a week ago. You should probably give it back to her. Tomorrow, when it’s daytime and the parents are awake.

Right.

You grin as you type up a message and quickly send it, the book clutched in your other hand.

 **Clarke** : are you asleep?

Lexa’s reply comes surprisingly fast.

 **Lexa Woods** : About to. Did you need something?

Oh, Lexa. Your grin grows wider as you send several texts.

 **Clarke:** you left your book downstairs

 **Clarke:** you want me

 **Clarke:** to bring it to you?

Yes, it’s a little immature. Doesn’t make it any less fun. You imagine the look on her face when she reads your texts. Imagine her vibrant green eyes rolling at your childish innuendo.

This time, Lexa takes a little longer with her reply.

 **Lexa Woods:** I do.

 **Lexa Woods:** Thank you.

She does, huh? Looks like it’s game on.

You stop by your room to quickly change just for the hell of it. For someone like Lexa, noticing the change in her outfit won’t be difficult at all. And what a change it is. Well. You always had a knack for symbolism.

Lexa’s face is unreadable when she looks up at you from her phone and gives you a once-over. It doesn’t escape your attention when her eyes stay on your shorts just a second too long. The ones you had on when she fucked you against the wall.

What you wouldn’t give to be able to read thoughts. Her thoughts.

Fuck, she looks good.

Lexa’s lounging on her bed in nothing but grey boxers and a simple v-neck t-shirt. The outfit hugs her in all the right places. Accentuates her toned body, muscled and slim.

God, how you want her.

"Here," you say softly, placing the book on Lexa’s nightstand and watching her give it a look of acknowledgement. The silence that follows stretches to the point of discomfort.

Lexa sits on the bed in a simple fluid movement, placing her feet on the floor, and stares up at you. Her abs flex under her shirt, and you barely catch yourself before you lunge at her. When has she become this irresistible to you?

"Thank you," she says, her voice even. You nod. Follow her gaze where it lands on your neck, green eyes narrowing just slightly. She has a thing for necks, that much you figured.

You certainly don’t complain.

Lexa’s still on her bed. Unmoving. She sits straight and proper, looking at you impassively, and it irks you. How effortlessly she hides her emotions – because, surely, she has to have some, right? She can’t be unaffected by this, whatever it is running between the two of you. You have to know she’s yearning for it just as much as you are. So you stay put and eye her, struggling to mask your impatience.

When she allows a tiny smirk to escape, you have your answer.

Bitch.

You scoff and walk towards her, losing all pretense. For some reason, you’re annoyed with her. Not enough to turn around and leave, but enough to make Lexa work for it just a little. You won’t make the first move. You won’t, stubbornly and stupidly.

Lexa’s as impossible to read as she is impossible not to want.

It seems like a full minute passes before Lexa slowly, carefully leans back on her hands, her gaze still locked with yours, and you know this is it. This is her first move, just like you stroking her arms a few nights ago. Bravo, Lexa. It’s a draw. One – all.

It’s her move. You take it. Just as slowly as she leaned back, you straddle her, your knees on each side of her thighs. Her body is warm underneath you. Almost hot. You place your hands on her shoulders, leisurely, and lean in. You almost give in and kiss her when her stomach brushes up against your cunt, and the contact is so sudden, so electric that you moan, briefly biting your lip.

That’s what makes her break. You file it away for future reference, and then your mind goes blank, because she kisses you.

It’s annoying – how good of a kisser she is. It’s either practice or talent, and you prefer to think it’s the latter. You’re possessive like that. Everything you consider yours can only belong to you.

It’s nothing romantic – of course not. Lexa’s yours in the dirtiest, most primal sense of the word. She’s the most exciting thing you have in your life right now.

She’s also one of the most skilled lovers you’ve had – a confession you’re only willing to make to yourself. Doesn’t make it any less true. It’s like Lexa knows you throughout. Knows where to push and where to pull and where to press to reduce you to a moaning, shivering mess that you’re quickly becoming under her hands. Hands that quickly make their way under your sleep shirt, scratching at your back and making you gasp into her mouth. Lexa takes her opportunity to deepen the kiss, and the feel of her tongue on yours brings you so much relief it’s embarrassing.

You’ll never tell her about any of this.

You’re not sure who changes the pace, but you’re not about to complain any time soon. Lexa’s hands are suddenly greedy and hot on your skin, dragging down your back and cupping her ass. It already feels better than most of the sex you’ve had this year. You’re so compatible in bed it’s almost scary.

Terrific and terrifying. You’re about to chuckle at your thoughts when Lexa starts kneading your ass, fingers almost touching your clothed cunt, and the anticipation is so overwhelming you whimper.

It’s loud. Too loud. You know, because Lexa stops kissing you.

She doesn’t stop fondling your ass, though. Seriously, she’s a bit of a bitch. "The door," she whispers, and you shudder at the sound of her voice, strangled and heavy. "I should close it."

"It doesn’t bother me,” you pant, smirking. You’re not sure if Lexa kisses you because she finds it hot or because she wants to shut you up, but you’re at that point where you don’t exactly care.

You think you just might slap her when she tears her mouth away for a second time. "I should close it," she repeats, voice hushed.

She’s not the only one in the room who can be a bit of a bitch. "So close it," you breathe out, sighing as your fingers play with small, soft hairs at the nape of Lexa’s neck. You’re about to lean in and taste the skin there when she stands up. With you.

You yelp at the sudden movement, grasping at her shoulders. Lexa’s arms are strong and secure when she puts them under your knees and hoists you up on her hips, but you’re still a little afraid she might simply drop you just for the hell of it. You don’t need a sore ass and trouble walking tomorrow. You’d much rather the reason for it be much more pleasant.

Lexa kisses you when she carries you to the door, closing it and pressing you against it. You laugh, out of breath from her lips on hers. "You have a thing for fucking against walls, don’t you?"

"I thought I told you not to analyze me," Lexa grunts, leaning down to nip at your neck. You want to laugh when she finds the mark she’s left on you several days ago. Instead, when she begins to laps at it, you shudder and cling closer to her, crying out at the sensation.

Lexa stops. "You have to be quiet," she points out, and you nod, quick and impatient. Anything for her to continue nibbling at your neck. You grab the back of her neck and tug her forward, letting out a gasp when you feel her lips moving against your skin.

When a tongue joins, you just can’t help yourself. “Oh, Lexa…”

Lexa doesn’t appreciate it as much as you hope she would. "Clarke," she hisses, walking back to the bed. She places you on it, carefully – like you’re made of glass. It’s too much, so you tug her and she falls between your legs, her weight comfortably heavy on her. “Be quiet."

She’s right. You should be quiet. It’s not only about you. But you just – you just can’t control some things. "I’m trying,” you let her know in a whisper.

"Try harder," Lexa says, "or I'll have to gag you."

Oh. Well. That’s not a very efficient threat, you think to yourself as you imagine her shoving your panties into your mouth and maybe tying your hands behind your back, too.

Wow. You’re daydreaming about Lexa while Lexa is right there with you. This is unsettling.

You’re immensely grateful when she takes off her shirt, because it distracts you from your thoughts and because, well, it’s Lexa without a shirt on. You almost hate her for how perfect she is under it. She’s sculpted – that’s the word you’re looking for. By Greek gods themselves, probably.

You more than welcome it when she leans down, kissing you again. Her lips move against your own, unhurried and purposeful, and you immediately palm her abs. Count each one with your finger and scratch at them, purring when you feel them jump under your hands. You just want to lick them all over. Lick her all over.

With that thought, you sink your teeth in her lower lip, using pain as distraction to flip her onto her back and straddle her. You doubt she would have let you do that the nice way – she doesn’t strike you as a person who easily gives up control. Visible control, that is.

You’ve been in control ever since this whole thing has started, whether or not Lexa is aware of it.

Lexa’s legs are parted with your hands impatiently as you settle between them. Now she’s the one spread before you, yours for the taking, and the promise of what’s to come makes you shiver.

"Fuck, Clarke," she gasps when you hands roam all over her. You want to hear more, but Lexa continues to talk in small sighs.

"On it," you mumble then. Her jaw is right in front of you, and you can’t pass an opportunity to nibble at it. Delicious, just like you thought. You smile into her skin.

Payback’s a bitch. But a really nice one sometimes. Your teeth close on her neck sharply and suddenly – you’re careful not to hurt her too much, but you’re not opposed to just a little pain. Judging by Lexa’s gasp, she isn’t, either.

"Fuck," falls from full lips.

Exactly.

You continue to suck on her neck after your teeth let up, caressing her abs and straying lower, lower, lower until your fingers collide with the elastic waistband of her boxers. You want nothing more than to plunge your hand inside. To find her dripping and ready for you. But you don’t. You need a little more from her, again. There’s this unexplainable tug in her chest that you can’t dwell on, so you stick to scratching at her lower stomach that has actual fucking abs as well – who has abs there? – and wait for her to…

"Clarke," Lexa growls, saving you from having to figure it out. "Fuck me."

A green light. That’s what you wanted from her. That’s all you need to finally dive inside her underwear and cup Lexa between her legs.

Holy fucking…

She’s drenched. So wet and so hot and so tense. Her clit is already hard and throbbing under your fingers. It’s a complete mess, and you can’t stop a loud moan. Thankfully, Lexa is way past the point of caring, at least for the time being.

You watch as she throws her head back, landing on a pillow and gasping. “Oh God," she rushes out. "Fuck. Don't stop."

You knew you were right the first time, but still, "Talker," you tease her, smirking.

Lexa’s boxers, as hot as they are, are the least favorite thing of yours right now, so you tug them down her legs, hurried and sloppy. You need her naked. Bare. You need to feel her skin all over.

The boxers fly somewhere; you don’t know where they land because you’re not looking. What you’re looking at is the beautiful girl with her eyes screwed shut and her legs spread, inviting your fingers back. You comply, just like you comply with Lexa’s silent plea to kiss her. It’s exhilarating – having this constantly put-together, serious, neat girl so completely at her mercy. So disheveled and sweaty and willing to let her do anything she wants. Begging her to do anything she wants.

"Inside." Like right now, for example. "I need you inside. Two."

Fuck. You’re about to feel her around your fingers, hot and velvet. About to do what you couldn’t stop thinking about ever since the stairwell incident. Hell, ever since her eyes met yours for the first time.

She’s tight. Tighter than you, so you take your time, because you don’t want to hurt her. Once you push past the entrance, though, she sucks you in, her inner walls fluttering around you, expanding and squeezing. It’s – fuck, you can’t describe it. It’s like a dream. A wet, dirty, delicious dream you’ve had so many times coming true.

She feels so fucking good. So good you can’t stop yourself from moaning; from responding to her sweet little gasps and sighs. God, she sounds so pretty.

Through the haze, you barely remember she’s fully naked under you. Her breasts aren’t as big as yours, but they are beautiful, just like the rest of her. Perfect for cupping one in your hand, and that’s what you do, gently palming at it. Lexa releases her first actual moan of the night when you start to roll the erect nipple between your fingers, and the sound sends an electric shock through your body. You whimper into her neck, turned on beyond belief. You think that if you were to rub against her thigh, you’d come with her, for sure. But you want to watch, this first time.

Lexa shivers when you lick up to her ear, and you get an idea. You lick down her chest and still all movements, waiting for Lexa to open her eyes, unfocused and bright.

Lexa’s face almost twists in a snarl, but you don’t wait until it does. Your mouth sucks her nipple in at the same time your fingers curl inside her precisely so that they are hitting the spot you’ve found tonight.

Lexa arches her back, clutching the sheets and biting at her lip not to scream. You can clearly see she’s fighting against her urge to give up control. Little does she know, it’s already too late. All control is concentrated in your hand between her legs, holding her up.

"Look at me," you whisper. "Lexa."

You must press on her clit with your thumb in just the right way, because a second later, Lexa’s eyes lock with hers, and she trembles as she comes.

The way Lexa unravels is nothing short of a masterpiece.

"Fuck!" Lexa’s whisper-screaming, and it would be funny if it weren’t so fucking hot. She’s clenching around your fingers, rhythmically pulses and gushes wetness down your hand. "Oh, Clarke, oh fuck!"

You can’t take your eyes off her. The way her body arches, seamlessly, like waves are coming right through is, is mesmerizing, so you allow yourself to be hypnotized with the sight that is Lexa Woods. But what comes later is no less beautiful. The way she flops on her back, the way her chest heaves with breathing, ragged and quick, the way she shudders with the aftershocks of her orgasm – it’s etched across your eyelids, and you doubt you’d be able to forget it even if you wanted to.

And what kind of a lunatic would ever want to forget witnessing something this gorgeous?

"Shit," Lexa grunts, shaking you out of the weird trance she unknowingly put you under. Her breathing is slowing down, but she still has trouble getting it under control. You feel proud. You feel more than proud. You feel on top of this fucked-up, miserable world, and it’s like nothing can touch you here.

You made Lexa Woods fall apart in your arms, and that was just about the best sexual thing you've ever experienced.

But, with the way she rolls you over, her gaze dark and hungry, you're pretty sure she's about to prove you wrong. 

//

 

You’re not sure about Lexa herself - actually, you’re pretty sure that’s not happening _ever_ \- but you’re in love with several parts of her body at the moment. If you could, you’d marry her lips.

And have an affair with her tongue, because her fucking _tongue_. Usually you’re not this bad at words, but it’s really hard to be eloquent when Lexa’s kissing and licking her way down your body.

This is not her first time, that’s for sure. There is this quiet confidence radiating off of her, mixed with hunger; confidence that hints at the fact that she’s done it quite a lot of times, and she liked it, and so did the girls she’s done it with.

Possessive coiling in your stomach tightens, ready to snap, but then Lexa finally reaches her destination, and your mind goes blank. Completely. No racing thoughts and no misplaced jealousy and no caution.

The last part isn’t as good as the previous two, because you let out a moan that’s perfectly fine with you and absolutely not fine with Lexa. Which is bad, because such silly little things like staying quiet and not getting caught apparently matter to her even in the heat of the moment. No, but - in general it’s a good thing.

(No, but - how is it that she doesn’t lose herself with you as you do with her?)

“Clarke,” and here it is. Lexa stops to give you a scathing look. “Come on.”

“Sorry.” you’re not, not even in the slightest, and you think she knows that.

"Use the pillow, bite on your fist, or something," she suggests in a whisper, and you almost want to laugh, because you know yourself and you know nothing will work. But just to placate her - to feel her mouth on you again, her tongue hot and quick and perfect - you give her a sloppy nod and place a hand over your mouth, loudly breathing into it and biting at the skin.

Somewhere deep inside, there is this sudden urge - this need - to do as you’re told. Maybe you’ll convince her to roleplay later.

(Maybe you want to obey because while you don’t give a shit, she clearly does - but that’s a thought for another time, not when Lexa’s about to fuck you with her mouth.)

You think you’re doing pretty well on the keeping quiet front. Then, she has to go and suck on your clit.

Honestly, what did she expect?

You practically howl with pleasure exploding across your eyelids. A second later, your eyes find Lexa’s as she hovers above you, pressing you into the mattress with a hand on your mouth, harsh and demanding. You’re pretty sure that if she were to press on your clit - fuck, just touch it, even barely graze it - you’d shatter.

Lexa’s eyes are wide as she stares down at you, but they are not scared. There’s no panic in them. The best word to describe them would be intense, which makes sense - she’s obviously listening, expecting to hear footsteps hurrying your way. She’s taut and focused and still.

The moonlight streaming through the window is hitting her just the right way, sharpening her features and the angles of her figure. Highlighting the way her jawline is locked and the way her jaw muscles work, tense and anticipating. The sight above you beats all greek sculptures and renaissance paintings and each and every drawing you have of her, stashed at the bottom of your bag. The artist in you - the woman in you - can’t help but wonder what the two of you must look right now. You, with your legs entwining her waist, grasping at the sheets, knuckles white with tension. Her, pinning you down, blanket halfway sliding down her muscular back, rough hand to your mouth.

The image burns in your brain, crystal clear and sharp, and you can’t hold back anymore. You writhe, rolling your hips up in a desperate attempt to rub against her stomach. You just need some friction. God, just a little bit. Her abs will do it for you.

Lexa catches on quick, just like always. Still looking you in the eye, her stare still focused and intense, she carefully thrusts down into you, and you were right. Her abs are certainly doing it for you.

It already feels good when she rubs against you. But when a cry escapes from you and she’s forced to press on your mouth harder - it feels incredible. In this moment, you just want her to fuck you through the mattress. Thrust until there’s nothing but the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall and your screams. But you won’t get that tonight, and you’re as frustrated as you’re aroused.

You’re so making her fuck you like that when the parental unit inevitably flees somewhere soon.

Right now, though, with Lexa’s fingers exploring between your legs - you’re not exactly opposed to her fucking you like this. Slow and careful. As intense as Lexa’s eyes on yours.

You only hope she can see how desperate you are. Can see the silent plea to fuck me, Lexa, please, just take me already-

You missed her fingers, you realize when she enters you for the first time tonight. So long and so thick when she goes with three of them right away. Fortunately for Lexa, the parents, the entire situation - and unfortunately for you - her hand on your mouth muffles your scream. You just want to be loud. The desire grows when she straddles your thigh and you can feel how absolutely drenched she is for you.

You whimper into her hand, pathetic and soft and not caring at all. For the first time since - well, since your first time - you willingly give up this amount of control. To her. Perhaps, because it feels so good. Because she knows what she’s doing and you don’t have to work for your pleasure as hard. Perhaps.

Lexa rocks against you as she thrusts, struggling to keep her rhythm steady. “Clarke.” Her voice. A mere whisper, yet it does things to you most of your partners couldn’t even touch. The sound of your name falling from her lips, heated and hushed, makes you clench around her fingers, and you moan at the sensation. Lexa does, too: “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.” Her thrusts grow faster, and you gasp as your cunt grows louder, sloppy wet sounds filling the room.

And then Lexa says words that are either a blessing or a curse. You’re still on the fence on that one.

“Such a good girl...”

You jerk, letting out a sharp moan as your cunt contracts, sending an electric jolt through your body. You pray Lexa doesn’t notice.

Oh, but she does.

“Clarke.” there’s something in her voice, both smug and awed, and it makes you clench again. You know you’re ridiculously close by now. All it will take is Lexa’s fingers curled just right - but she’s already there, stroking upwards now instead of just thrusting in and out, and fuck. This shouldn’t feel this fucking good, but it does. You don’t even realize your nails dig in that deep in her back till she winces. Out of sheer spite, you don’t let up. She doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, that spurs her on.

Fuck.

“Good girl,” Lexa purrs in your ear, her stroking deep and purposeful. “That's it. You're doing so good, baby.”

Baby?

Oh God.

You shouldn’t like that word falling from her lips this much. But Lexa doesn’t give you any time for further contemplation.

“That's it,” she whispers hotly, biting your earlobe and panting as she rides your leg. It’s hot and slippery all over and you live for this. You just live for this. “Let go.”

You think you know what’s coming next, pardon that little pun.

“Come for me.”

And, God, you never were one for something this cheesy - it certainly never worked for you - but now, with Lexa whispering the command in your ear, her fingers stroking deep inside you and her hand pinning you down, muffling the sounds she fucks out of you - now, you have no choice but to obey.

She just has to kiss you when you come. You wish she didn’t. You wish she didn’t, because when she does, there are fireworks exploding behind your eyelids and mad fluttering in the pit of your stomach, completely parallel to the one in your cunt that sucks on Lexa’s long, slender fingers. Being kissed during an orgasm feels suspiciously like being taken care of, and this? This isn’t it.

This is scratching an itch and both of you are fine with it.

And, of course, she comes with you. And - it’s not like you’ll fall in love with her after this one - admittedly, phenomenal - fuck. That would be reckless and dangerous and entirely too cliche. But there are things - feelings - you can’t exactly control, no matter how much you try.

Coming together and kissing while coming together certainly arouse some of them. Content. Satisfaction. Not the quick, empty one - the one that makes you want to maybe fall asleep next to her and maybe wake up next to her. Not love. But not purely casual, either.

The worst part is, that feeling doesn’t fade as quickly as you’d like it to.

Lexa nips at your neck when she pulls out, and you mask your dreamy sigh by asking her if she wants to go again. You can’t exactly mask the dopey smile you have on your face right now.

“No,” Lexa replies breathlessly. “No, it’s late.”

You have to chuckle at that, because seriously? Refusing sex because it’s late? Then again, it’s Lexa. You voice your thoughts. “Somehow I'm not surprised you would say no to more sex because you have to be up early.” There’s warmth spreading through your chest when Lexa hisses at her scratches coming in contact with the sheets. Scratches you left on her back. Scratches you marked her with. “That ship has sailed, by the way. It's...” You find Lexa’s phone on the nightstand. Fuck, that’s way too bright. “It's almost two.”

Lexa widens her eyes, and now there’s definitely panic in them. Figures she wouldn’t be scared of the parents finding you two, but is terrified of being thrown off her schedule.“What?” she snatches the phone from your hands. “Holy... Fuck,” she grumbles.

Holy fuck indeed. You’ve been having sex for two hours. Not the longest you’ve had it. Certainly one of the most pleasant.

Lexa’s tense. It’s easy to see. For some reason, she’s not as content as you to simply lay here, high on great sex. No, she’s coiled. Calculating. Thinking something over, constantly. Does she ever relax?

“You should go,” Lexa says, entirely unsurprising. “Before they wake up.”

The lack of emotion in her tone is… It makes you uneasy. Just a little bit. Or maybe offended is a better word? It’s clear she’s not nearly as affected by you as you are by her. You won’t lie - it leaves a dent in your pride. You’re still debating the size of that. So you cover it. “I doubt they will wake up before eight.”

“If they catch you sneaking out of my room, they will ask questions.” Lexa makes a good point. “My father is perfectly aware of my sexuality and not an idiot.” Well. That’s something you could argue about. If you wanted to, that is.

But you don’t. Not about this, anyway. “Neither is my mom. But do you really think they would care?”

You don’t know why you care.

Lexa picks up on that. “You sound like you want to stay.”

You do, and that’s the worst part. That’s what makes you stand up and smirk. “Don't worry. I don't.”

You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t attempt to rattle her for the last time. Lexa’s clothes just happen to be right there. So you snatch them and quickly put them on. They are soft and they smell like her.

When you glance at her one last time, you’re not smiling.

Because you already know you want to do this again.

//

The opportunity arises very soon. Next day soon. You sneak into her room again and she wordlessly tugs you to her bed, lips and hands already on your skin. You’re an addition to her daily routine - is that how Lexa sees it?

(How does Lexa see things?)

(How do you?)

You grow bolder the more time passes. It’s not like the parents notice, or even care to notice, really. Lexa can’t seem to finally get it. You got it long before you moved in. Your mother buys Lexa’s pathetic excuse about strange noises in her room at night without a blink. That particular night, you make a point to sigh just a little more often, moan just a touch louder.

Lexa’s pointed thrusts and a heated glare were the best damn reward you’ve ever gotten.

Finally, they fucking leave. Your mom and Lexa’s dad, the oblivious and unwilling Cupids - no, that’s not a good analogy. What’s the word for Cupid but only lust-wise?

Who cares? You making Lexa bend you over her father’s desk is much more important, anyway - and that’s exactly what you’re planning on doing once you see the cab disappear after a left turn.

Lexa’s a little taken aback when you grab the back of her neck and give her a bruising kiss, shutting the door with a kick. She’s quick to respond, though. Her tongue strokes yours, and you feel your eyes roll back in your skull from the sensation.

You tear your mouth away just so you can let out the loudest, most obscene moan when she nibbles at your neck and palms at your ass.

“The study,” you gasp when she lifts you up, practically effortlessly, urging you to wrap your legs around her waist. “Now.”

One eyebrow raised in silent question, she still complies. You’re so consumed by your own anticipation and sheer relief from having the entire house back to yourselves, you don’t even notice when she settles you on a leather couch in her father’s study, lips hot and persistent against your own.

No. “No,” you smirk wickedly, breathing ragged. “Not here.”

Her confused look is as cute as her hands on your ass are hot. “What?”

You push her away, same wicked smirk playing on your lips. You wonder what her reaction will be. If she’ll scoff and turn away. If she’ll bite her lip and join you, pressing into you. As always, Lexa surprises you.

When you bend over her father’s desk, ass propped up invitingly and skirt hiked up just barely, just enough for her to get the idea, she stays rooted to her spot. Your eyes find hers over your shoulder, and she’s got her head cocked to the side, expression thoughtful as she studies you, unmoving.

“What are you waiting for?” you ask then, not sure if you’ll be able to handle it once she starts asking questions you can read in her eyes, green and serious.

But she doesn’t. She only nods. “Right,” she says, as if apologizing. “Okay.”

Her hands find the arch of your back and her fingers lift your skirt, finding you wet and ready. At that, she moans, desperate and wanting, and you moan back, loud and unabashed. Fucking _finally_.

Lexa doesn’t waste any time, correctly sensing your mood and settling right into it. She tugs your thong down to your ankles, and her right hand quickly finds your clit, toying with it as her left hand grabs onto your hair, tugging your head back and exposing your neck to her teeth and lips. She’s sloppy, and so are you. You move together, her pulling and you pushing. Your cunt finds her fingers immediately and surely, like it belongs on them. Like they belong there. You push back a little, and they slip inside, bumping against the spot where you need them the most.

You don’t hold back when you loudly let Lexa know just how good she’s making you feel, and you think you can feel a small smile curve against your neck.

But then, she tugs on your hair and her mouth finds yours, and it’s a second and an eternity of thrusting and pushing until you fall apart in her arms, completely at her mercy.

You let her gather you and put you back together, too. Let yourself revel in the softness of her lips at the nape of your neck, under your ears; let yourself lean back into her when her hand steadies you, presses against your stomach and pushes you further into her.

She still asks. Of course she does. "Did that make you feel better?"

You shrug. "No. But it wasn't supposed to." you kiss her just in case she might have more questions. But she doesn’t. She only gives you an unreadable look once you part.

She's hard to figure out at times.

Like that one time she came back from her fencing practice and grabbed you from the couch, lips insistent and hands greedy as she carried you to the counter and had you there, spread open and trembling. Not that you’re complaining. Of course not. This Lexa - this taking charge and taking you - you like her. A lot.

That’s the problem.

Because when she tells you she ‘won’t be available the next two weeks’ cause she, the big nerd she is, has to study extra hard to get a chance to blab some nonsense at the end of the year to people who don’t care, you don’t find that annoying. Or stupid. Or - or nonsense.

You decide to play dumb, if only to stop this weird, tingly warmth from spreading through your chest. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No. It's midterms." yeah, you figured.

"Right," you still say, as if you just got it. "Valedictorian stuff."

"Actually, regular student stuff." You arch your eyebrow so you don’t smile at her, and she sighs but continues. "Anyway. I just thought you should know. Our, uh, arrangement... I won't be able to, um..."

Does this mean she cares? Is this her caring, in her own Lexa way?

Well, it’s certainly better than her sending you an email notification. Dear Clarke, I am afraid I must postpone our meetings for the upcoming two weeks. Or whatever it is people write in emails.

You interrupt her before she has a chance to embarrass herself. You personally don’t find it embarrassing, of course - but she might. "I got it," you say. "I'll find someone else to fuck while you're studying for the brighter future."

"I thought you already had someone else," Lexa says. "Several someones."

What?

"Why?" you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s too rushed, too panicked, and you hurry to give it a reason. "You're always there." Yes. That’s why - yes.

It’s no big deal. You’ve never had a problem finding someone to spend the night with. Just because it’s only been Lexa lately, doesn’t mean you won’t be able to make it work with someone else.

//

It doesn’t work.

His lips are too thin and his hands are the wrong kind of rough and he’s not - but no, you’re not saying that. Not even in your head.

Saying that would be admitting that.

(Haven’t you already?)

You want her. But you want a lot of people. Just not this guy. So you let him know.

He doesn’t really like it. You don’t really give a shit.

“Bitch,” you hear him mutter when he’s hastily thrown his clothes back on and is halfway through the door of your room.

“At least I know how to find a clit,” you call out after him, bored, and he scoffs. He doesn’t comment, though. You don’t comment on the _bitch_ , either.

No use denying the truth, in both cases. Maybe this has everything to do with his shortcomings and nothing to do with her, after all.

Well, shit. You’ve said it. Suddenly, the idea to stay in our room and fuck yourself to sleep is far less appealing than starting - and finishing - the bottle of whiskey you have stashed downstairs. As soon as you hear the angry door slam, indicating your failed lover has left, you tumble down the stairs.

Great. Lexa’s there, standing right near the stairwell and wearing your favorite shirt. Well, it’s her shirt, but it’s your favorite on her.

You’re not going to think about it.

Lexa follows you to the kitchen. "Trouble in paradise?" she asks. When you glance at her, you find her leaning against the doorpost, watching you go through the cabinets.

"What?" you snap. Paradise? “I don't even know his name."

"So you're finally seeing the error of your ways and coping like a stable adult would?” well, someone’s in a good mood, and it’s not you. Isn’t she supposed to be studying?

You finally find the bottle and unscrew the cap, rolling your eyes at Lexa. "We’re seventeen," and Lexa always forgets. "We are supposed to make fucked up choices and not deal with them the right way. You keep forgetting that." She always forgets, but she remembers everything else.

You barely stop yourself from snarling at her when she grabs the bottle you’re about to tip in your mouth. You still grunt in protest when she wrestles the bottle out of your hand and carefully screws the cap back on. "I’m not forgetting that," she says. "And I’m eighteen."

You think you already know where this is going, but: "Since when?"

"Since last week."

Why didn’t she tell you?

(You’re not the kind of person who gets to know about her birthday, are you?)

(You’re just the one she fucks.)

"Oh." you frown. "Why didn’t you…” but she’s not obligated to, so: “I mean, I didn’t know it was your birthday last week."

Lexa’s calm and precise when she answers. "It’s not that big of a deal," she says. "I don’t care about my birthday. I don’t have time to celebrate."

That does sound like her, but - who doesn’t have time to celebrate their birthday? "I bought myself a gift and everything. Celebration is… taxing."

She doesn’t like celebrating her birthday. To you, it’s a little shocking. You like birthdays. You like your own just fine, despite a lot of shit. But Lexa just doesn’t celebrate.

But - does Lexa even have people to celebrate it with?

(She has you.)

(Does she?)

Her lips are way too inviting and you’re way too sober for that.

Lexa falls for good ole ‘hook line and sinker’ with adorable innocence. You watch her eyes that are about to flutter closed when you lean in, deliberately slow, staring at her lips. When you snatch the bottle from her hand, her expression burns with childlike betrayal, and you almost feel bad. Just like you almost feel bad for not knowing it was your birthday. For not doing anything.

For not being someone she feels she can tell about it to in the first place.

Whiskey sounds really, really good right about now.

So you smirk at her. "Well, if you find it ‘taxing’ to celebrate, I’ll do it for you. Cheers.”

Sex is better than alcohol at making you forget, but, since you’re not getting that, whiskey will have to do. Except Lexa clearly has other plans.

Her hand is steady when she takes the bottle and places it on the counter, and her lips are hungry when she kisses the snark off your lips, and - fuck. You missed this. You missed her.

The kiss is over far too soon, and you’re left high on it, clutching the front of Lexa’s - your favorite - shirt in your fist for support.

"What…" you get out weakly. Lexa reaching up and brushing your hair from your face makes you pause, and it’s a second before you continue. "What was that?"

Lexa’s lips stretch in a half-smirk. "He didn't make you come, did he?"

He didn’t even get to try. But Lexa doesn’t need to know that. You let her question go unanswered. Let her think whatever it is she wants to think. It’s far better - far safer - than the actual truth.

The next kiss is rushed and sloppy and hot and you already know she’ll make you scream tonight. You’re not sure it’s a wise idea - but your body has already decided everything for you. “Come on,” Lexa mumbles against your lips. “Hop on.”

You don’t waste any time, quickly getting on the counter with Lexa’s help. You don’t move to close your robe when it falls open, because what’s the point? It’s in the way as it is. Lexa’s eyes darken when she takes you in, all of you. You wonder if she notices fresh marks that aren’t hers. You wonder how that makes her feel.

You wonder, not for the first time, if she feels anything at all.

You chase the thought away. It doesn’t matter. All you want Lexa to do right now is make you come; maybe take her time while doing it, but still - and Lexa gets the hint. When she drops to her knees before you, your breath catches in your throat.

When she gives your cunt a sloppy, forceful kiss, that breath releases in a loud cry as she rolls her hips into her face.

“Lexa,” you sigh, grasping at her shoulder. “Oh, Lexa...”

Lexa likes it when you say her name. Moan it, scream it, whisper it - doesn’t matter. Every time you do it, she goes an extra mile to please you. Right now, she does it by thrusting her tongue inside you. It’s an interesting sensation, if you had to describe it. Being filled in a different way. But you need more, so you let her know, tugging on her hair and thrusting against her mouth. Lexa doesn’t make you wait.

Your reward is two fingers inside, instantly curling upwards, and a greedy mouth sucking on your clit.

“Oh, God, Lexa!”

You feel your control slipping away. It always happens with her, but tonight - it’s more. More of your control for her to take. More of you for her to take. You can’t exactly describe it - maybe it’s because it’s been so long - so you don’t try to. You just ride her pretty face.

You think you can feel her grin into your cunt when it gives a strong pulse and then implodes under her persistent tongue, throbbing around her fingers. You’re not prepared for Lexa to thrust her tongue inside again and moan into you, practically drinking you as you come in her mouth. It sends a small shock through you - another small orgasm that you softly moan through, clenching her hair in your fingers and her tongue in your cunt.

Soon it becomes a lot; then, it becomes too much. You push at her and she backs away instantly, giving your clit the last soft kiss as she does. You’re thankful she’s already gone, because you clench around nothing again and there’s very little chance it wasn’t her small gesture that did it. Lexa’s already on her feet, rising slowly and lazily with kisses all over your body.

When her lips finally reach yours, the taste makes you moan. Lexa and you, combined. You’d bottle it and keep it all to yourself because no one else can touch it.

That thought is chased away, too. You have to find something else to focus on. When you briefly recall your earlier conversation, you do. "This is illegal," you chuckle. Lexa’s gaze is confused and warm. "I’m a minor, remember?" The confusion in Lexa’s eyes only grows, and you just have to lean in and peck her ever-present pout. "And you're not. How does it feel? Breaking the law?"

Green eyes are sparkling with muted laughter. "Clarke," she says, smirking. "In a couple of months, this will be illegal for a whole other reason."

Well. She’s not wrong, so you grin, reveling in the replying grin of Lexa’s own.

Right up until she presses a gentle kiss to the side of your head and breathes you in, fully and unabashedly.

This is not what hook-ups do. This is not what people who don’t have any kind of feelings do.

You freeze, and Lexa is right there with you. She moves first, though. Clears her throat and steps away from you. Courteously extends her hand for you to grab onto and get down from the counter, and just as courteously catches you when you stumble into her, head still spinning from everything that’s just happened, including her rare display of affection.

Affection that has no place in your arrangement - that’s how you thought she saw things, anyway.

Suddenly, you want this weird pang in your chest to be gone, so you kiss her, harsh and unforgiving. Punishing. Blaming.  

And Lexa won’t have any of it, apparently.

“Clarke, stop,” she breathes before stepping away. Her hands find yours, taking them away from your face, and you’re too late to stop your fingers from curling around hers. You watch as her throat bobs prettily when she swallows and squeezes them.

The pang is back and you don’t like that you like it.

Lexa has such beautiful eyes and it isn’t fair.

“You don't have to,” she tells you.

“But I want to,” you tell her.

Her next words are so predictable, but you still feel like the wind is knocked out of you. “Yeah, well, I can't.” She glances at her wristwatch. Of course. Midterms and then finals and then an Ivy League college somewhere across the country.

“It wasn't about me, anyway.”

Fuck - did she have to say that?

And does she have to reach down and tie your robe for you, acting like a neat freak and therefore being so painfully herself?

It feels like being taken care of, and you don’t - not from her-

But maybe-

(‘It wasn’t about me’)

You catch her hand in yours and squeeze, not knowing where you want it to go next (KIss her, pull her close, hold her and kiss her until there’s no air left in your lungs and then kiss her some more-) but Lexa decides for you. She nods and takes a step back and turns to leave. And leaves.

There’s something lodged in your throat and you call out to her just so that something goes away. “Lexa,” you call, and when she turns to look at you, you realize there’s nothing you can really say to her. Except “thank you.”

Really? Thank you?

(Stop, just for a minute, a second, stop and let me think)

Lexa nods and leaves.


End file.
